


Vision

by EgregiousDerp



Series: The Tearing of the Veil [1]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Title: It’s Raining Men (Halellujah!), And also dicks., And it’s not in a ‘This is Leading to a Fiddle Battle’ way, And we’re not sure if it needs a comma in there or not given the circumstances, Baze Malbus’ Long Sexy Floof Hair, Hella Sighted and Appreciative Chirrut, Honeymoon Shenanigans, M/M, Making Some Memories You don’t want your parents sticking in the photo album, Some Implied Ritual Drug Use But Consented To (?????), Speaking of Which? Sighted!Chirrut, Sure Hope you like flowery metaphors, The Thing not going down is Baze’s Tight Tight Sweater, When we say it’s going down the “It” is Chirrut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-24 23:16:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14365815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EgregiousDerp/pseuds/EgregiousDerp
Summary: They marry young, and Chirrut swears they should have married sooner.





	Vision

**Author's Note:**

  * For [naniiebim](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naniiebim/gifts).



> A draft of this was posted on my tumblr in response to a piece by Naniiebim of the same name. Published here, with express permission granted by the artist.
> 
> (The Piece this was inspired by can be found here! Along with its follow-up drawing “Glow”
> 
> http://naniiebimworks.tumblr.com/post/172564233363/naniiebimworks-glow)
> 
> If this gives you half as much comfort and peace as your works give the people of this side of fandom, Nan, I’ll count that as a victory.
> 
> Thank you for making this fandom a kinder and more beautiful place.

They marry young. 

Too young, according to the more cautious masters, since they’re barely into their mid-twenties, where Baze’s hair is still rebelliously long and impossibly full in the humid snap after the spring rains, where the weather’s still bitterly cold and the wet makes it all the worse.

Chirrut sees him fussing with his hair when he thinks no one is looking, tugging and flattening at it, swaddled in formless layers of off-white up to his chin, the bright color of the flowers in the sands that live only for a little while.

It seems an ill omen, wearing a mourning color to your wedding. But the ceremony is open to outsiders and pilgrims of all sorts and it suits Baze, renders him darker and softer-looking when they say their vows and bind their hands and pledge to one another by the Force.

Baze cries.

Of course he does.

He does it silently, trying to hold back, mouth twisted into a pinched line, so Chirrut loves him, _loves him_ , could fly out his skin with his joy, his elation at finally having Baze Malbus’ hands in his forever, having the crystals in their staves swapped so the other is with them with every step.

There is meant to be a seven day ceremony, a feast. But Baze and Chirrut share that feast with four other Couples of varying species and mixes, and one Triad of Gran, and whatever parts of Jedha, of the larger universe, have come to celebrate life and love and things growing with all of them.

It’s comparatively easy to slip away to their suite after their vows, while the Gran are breaking and exchanging kyber to fuse between all three brides, laying their more complex vows together. And the moment they do escape, they fall on one another, touching and grasping with hands that still have the blood-red lines of tight binding cords indented into their skin.

Chirrut doesn’t have the patience for the layers, for tearing off all of Baze’s clothes. He’s drunk on effervescent kyber water and the intoxicating succulent blossoms that are the harvest of spring, and on Baze—most of all on Baze—whose lips taste of flowers, and sticky-sweet fermented Chav, and who is probably quite a bit drunk himself to have been weeping in front of everyone with his mouth pinched and drawn up in the middle even if he’s only sipped the single shared cup from the ceremony, since Baze is usually sober, bordering on somber when there is imbibing, dry down to his observant humor, wrapped up tightly in layers upon layers upon layers like petals around the suggestive glowing stamens and pistils of the unfolding rainbloom.

He’s weeping even now, but also laughing sample as Chirrut pushes up the warm knitted synth-silk sheathe he wears beneath his embroidered wedding robes. Low, hoarse peals that come from his chest so Chirrut just wants to crawl in and hear his laughter envelop him like an echo chamber, wants to live in the place behind Baze’s ribs, reaches like he can achieve this.

The sheathe doesn’t make it off all the way, pushed just above Baze’s nipples as he twitches, fisting at their bedding.

It isn’t flower perfume that has Chirrut’s eyesight blurring. He knows this. Though he hasn’t told Baze. Can’t tell Baze. Not yet. Not Baze, who will laugh quietly at the sentiment of fear about his vision blurring. Not when he’s squeezing his ribs, and feeling just how slight the give is, how solid his husband is, and how something new, and long coming can make even the solidness of Baze Malbus crumple and shake.

Baze doesn’t make a noise, just breathes and pants unevenly. Shudders and clenches around Chirrut’s fingers, and twitches against his tongue, overwhelmed, heavy like the clouds gathering on the horizon that had had the elders so worried. Unusual, to have two rains in a season. Dangerous, where the people are gathered. 

The Mesa is high ground and the temple the highest, its spire sometimes untouched by clouds, other times licked and seared by bolts of lightning. It isn’t the temple that they fear for. And the gathered may huddle in its refuge, but escaping with one’s life alone can seem a shallow blessing when all else is lost. Rebuilding is painful. The elders know this.

Chirrut likes it. The feeling they could be swept away at any moment, that speed counts. He has always been quick. Lives a life dedicated to the Force. He has his fingers deep inside the one thing worth grabbing, his mouth licking along the spire of Baze like a ferocious storm years in the making. He ravages him, quakes him down to the foundations with every trick he knows, with all his speed and his cunning, knows every inch, every swell and crevice like he’s a map spread beneath his fingers.

It doesn’t take long at all before Baze silently arches and falls limp with a gasp.

Chirrut lifts his head, cheek pressed to Baze’s hip. He throbs in his robes, though he somehow can’t bring himself to care. Not with Baze’s hot skin pebbling with goose flesh in the chill of the room, Baze’s head tilted like he’s listening for something, waiting for something.

Chirrut stills. Listens.

They can hear the garbled ceremonial words from their honeymoon chamber. The perfect silence outside their room while Baze catches his breath.

Nobody knew. Just like Baze wanted, Chirrut realized giddily. Another burst of incoherent glee. Like he’s gotten away with something, blowing a rude sound against Baze’s belly so his husband shoves his head off, snorting.

The kyber water keeps singing in Chirrut’s veins, the petals in his belly making him giggle.

They say to consume rainbloom is to open one’s inward eye to the Force. It is sacred, and ephemeral, gone in the heat of the next sun. Everyone in the crowd who cares to will have indulged in the harvest. They haven’t noticed Chirrut and Baze are gone, or that they are already part-way into what Chirrut hopes will be an extensive and _thorough_ consummation. 

They are supposed to see, and they notice nothing.

Chirrut raises his head to share this deeply funny thing with his new husband.

He turns to Baze, and catches sight of him, sitting formally on their bed, with his hair half-undone, not even pulled too badly out of shape, soft waves against his back. The soft thermal sheathe clings to him, Chirrut notices, hugging his throat, his biceps, and the exposed underswells of his chest. 

His body isn’t flat. His middle will only get thicker as the years go on, Chirrut realizes from looking at him, _really_ looking at him. The width of his thighs, his waist, his forearms. The blur of it that makes him keep blinking, blinking, hoping it will clear so he can keep staring at Baze, so he can remember this clearly: Baze half-clothed with his long hair brushing his hips, watching and listening with that mild frown of his to see if someone will take this away from them.

The laughter dies in Chirrut’s throat with a feeling of utter, Moon-struck revelation.

_Oh_

_I am one with the Force._

Then Baze turns his head, noticing him looking, and the spell breaks. And Chirrut has to go to him, _has_ to put his hands to the warm of Baze’s belly, to the wiry softness of his hair that he’s tried to oil into submission, letting Baze wrap his hands around his wrists, and smile at him with his wavering mouth, pushing the askew crown of bruised blossoms from Chirrut’s head.

”What?” He mumbles.

 _I’m one with the Force._ Chirrut croaks, staring up at him.

Baze snorts and rolls his eyes. He doesn’t understand.

That doesn’t yet strike Chirrut as a bad omen.

They marry young. And Chirrut swears they should have married sooner.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on tumblr at EgregiousDerp for a great deal of lacking in productivity, mixed nuts, and off and on anxiety about Chirrut Îmwe’s inability to stop banging for ten seconds.


End file.
